


Try, Try Again

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canadian Shack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade and his wife try to re-connect, things don't go exactly as planned. Set between Series 1 & 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try, Try Again

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to CaptainBlue for betaing.

A second honeymoon had seemed like a brilliant idea, before he'd been abandoned in a fishing shack.

Lestrade sighed. His marriage was over, and they both knew it. He just wished she hadn't taken the bloody _car._

It hadn't helped that the 'romantic, rustic mountain cabin' had turned out to be a run-down, cold shack in the woods that smelled like day-old fish. Having no cell phone reception had only added insult to injury. After a day and a half of trying to 'make the best of it' that had ended in tears and screaming, Jill had stormed out, gotten into the car, and left.

He couldn't blame her, really. It'd all been his bloody idea. Really, it'd been Choksi's idea, but Lestrade had been fool enough to think it a good one and book the vacation. Choksi was one of the few happily married men at the Met, and it'd seemed worth the effort. Almost anything had seemed worth the effort at the time.

Lestrade rubbed his temples. They'd been happy together once, hadn't they? Before...everything?

There weren't even any books in this stupid cabin, just a few fishing magazines and an old copy of _Hustler._ Lestrade was eyeing the _Hustler_ out of desperation when he remembered he still had a few games on his phone. The signal might be useless, but you didn't need a signal to match lines of colored jewels.

To his surprise, there was a faint half-bar when he turned the phone on. He shifted closer to the window, and it swelled to a full bar. Three texts came in: One from Donovan, one from bloody Sherlock and one from John Watson.

Donovan's was simple: _Best of luck, Sir._ He smiled wryly. It had come with the best of intentions, after all. Sherlock's was the usual passive-aggressive I-told-you-so about a case he'd been working, signed with the familiar _SH._ Even that cheered him a bit. John's was a question: _How's it going?_

Lestrade shook his head. _Worse than expected._

To his surprise, the reply came back right away. _Sorry. Want to talk?_

 _Barely enough signal to text. But thanks._

To Lestrade's surprise, the door swung open, revealing Jill and two enormous shopping bags. "Well," she announced, "there's a market a half-hour west. Look!" She dug into one of the bags and produced a fuzzy black knit hat. "It's qiviut."

"What's that?"

"It's some of the softest, warmest yarn you'll ever see," she said, walking up to him. "Or feel." She reached up and pulled it over his head. "Ha," she said. "It fits."

"Thank you," he said. He couldn't think of anything better to say.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I am too."

She smiled at him, and it seemed like so long since she'd done that. "Just don't ask me how much it set us back."

"All right," he said, and hugged her. She felt warm, and his heart picked up when she hugged him back.

"There's a restaurant next to the market," she said.

"I think we should go."

"And a motel."

"I can't believe that's not the first thing you told me."

She laughed. "Come on," she said. "We'll start over, all right?"

"All right," he said, and allowed himself a sliver of hope.


End file.
